User blog:Vox and the Vendetta/Only Me
Clarification: This poem written by me presents to you only a fair amount of the problems of the people I have met. Not all of them are mine, only the first paragraph is one of my major problems, but that is all. I want the reader to take a step back and listen, not take action. This piece of writing is used as a message and nothing more, nothing less. I do hope you enjoy. People never realize how much it hurts whenever I bring up my brother's inability to speak, to sing, to understand. To think, to believe, to fly—something that I want him to do, but he simply cannot. And at times like these, I wish he could. The people come to me with a fantasy of emotions, with the ones they believe will heal and I will feel: sympathy. Yes, pity, of all things and thoughts and ideas. Everything I go through and all they want is to apologize and bleed for me. I'm sorry for the hell God put you through, but one day, everything will be made right. But today is not the day the happens, so I'll simply say "I hope you feel better." Or maybe "Everything will be okay." Or even better, "I'm sorry," because you'll be fine. I'm not well; I'm nauseous and insane. For you to say this is outrageous, and foolish, and plain wrong. '' Your foul language of condolences sickens my insides and my heart, just because I know it won't be fair. It will never be. People stare at me as I walk down the corridor, my sides inked with black and blue bruises, my heart made of the most delicate glass, ready to shatter. Collapse. Break. Disintegrate. "What's wrong?" Nothing. You wouldn't understand. "What happened?" You won't get it. "Are you okay?" No. I'm far from it. I'm hurting, it stings, it burns, it's killing me. I am not okay; if you can't see that, you never will. "I'm sorry." You didn't do this to me. The words make me feel nothing, nothing more than what I already feel. The people keep pestering me these ignorant questions, futile statements and uninspiring idioms, oblivious to what damage they are causing. The destruction they hawk up and spit in my face. Their masks of happiness covering up their crestfallen and apoplectic faces. They don't know. People don't understand how hard it is to have divorced parents move to separate sides of the country, or be stuck living with their dad who's always drunk on straight whiskey. How hard it is to never feel the warmth and love that their mother provides ever again. They don't know why I break down in tears when I talk about how I want to see my sister for one last time, this Christmas, to say goodbye. They don't know how much a girl like her means to me, how I love and miss her dearly. Unaware of after how many years I've been shot at, bombs exploding in the background, how I can still hear it, it was real; they don't catch on. The way my mind tricks me back into those situations, the ones I have to be watching, the ones that wake me up at night, tormenting me. But I know, someday, everything will be made right, and fair, and even, and perfect. And you'll stop apologizing for the things you didn't do, for the things you didn't see. We all have these problems, so we all can understand the woe and torture we go through. You can hold me by the hand and we can jump out alive together, for each other, for me. We can breathe the clean air we breathe without the poison of past memories burning our noses. We can cry the old tears we formed, making room for the fresh, future ones. But someday is not today, even if you think so. My problems are still eating at my mind and my heart, devouring at my emotions, toying with me. I've been on a rollercoaster ride of all of my complications, and even yours, but you understand, you have to. Or is it '''only me?' Category:Blog posts